


Riptide

by October_rust



Series: Drowning/Currents [3]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe – Medieval/Fantasy, Angst, Bathing/Washing, Hair Washing, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-15 12:12:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13030869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/October_rust/pseuds/October_rust
Summary: Jason assists Lord Wayne in the bathing chamber.





	Riptide

Assist me.

The words have been echoing in Jason's mind for the last half hour. He clenches his fists as he waits, unable to focus on anything else. 

Assist me. 

Tension coils, unbearable, so he starts pacing the room. He glances at the wide stone tub, at the steam rising from the water. Next to the tub, there's a small table with soft cloths, soap, and fragrant oils.

Assist me.

One simple command, and he knows that it's an ancient tradition, to have the knight attend to his liege in the bathing chamber. That it's a show of trust, an affirmation of the vows of fealty. 

Hah.

If only it were that simple and straightforward between him and Lord Wayne.

But it's not. Not anymore, not after the Joker and the Pit. 

He's aware of what the people of Gotham are whispering about him. The Red Hood, Lord Wayne's tamed demon. The undead monster that stays at his master's side, collared and muzzled, yet still ready to defend the hand holding his leash. 

Well, the rumors aren't that far from the truth. Not when the red bat adorning Jason's breastplate these days is a clear stamp of ownership, proving beyond doubt just how much power Wayne has over him.

Lord Wayne's attack dog. 

Lord Wayne's property.

So be it. Jason prefers to see himself in this light, anyway. It dulls the pain, helps to keep the edge of his fury sharp. 

Better this than – 

The door opens soundlessly on well-oiled hinges, and Lord Wayne strides inside, his heavy cloak trailing behind him. 

The sight of him – the stark beauty of that noble face, the way he stands, tall and regal, clad in the armor black as the starless night – cuts Jason to the quick. Gods, this will never change, that awful, overwhelming pull that tugs at every part of Jason's being whenever he's in Wayne's presence. 

“Jason,” Lord Wayne greets him with a polite nod. “Please, undress me.”

Of course.

Jason wants to snarl, to hurl curses at Wayne.

Why are you doing this to me, you bastard?

Instead, he simply grits his teeth. In silence, he walks over to Wayne, fixes his gaze on the clasps of Wayne's cloak, and reaches up to undo them. The silver pins open easily, the fabric slides into his grasp. Jason still remembers how it draped over his shoulders in a blur of black, how Lord Wayne bent over him and announced to all of Gotham that Jason was to be spared from the executioner's blade.

You are mine, Lord Wayne said.

Such a clever gambit, leaving Jason with no opening, no way out.

And yet, despite all the anger simmering low in his gut, his fingers don't tremble when they start removing the armor piece by piece. The belt and the exquisitely wrought scabbards with the sword and the dagger, the cuirass, the pauldrons, the greaves, the cuisses, the vambraces and the gauntlets – Jason takes care of them all, meticulous and thorough as he unbuckles them and puts them away.

But then cold metal gives way to leather and linen, then to warm skin, and it's not so easy anymore.

It's …

With the greatest of efforts, Jason forces himself not to swallow, not to close his eyes, as he kneels to untie the laces and peel the smallclothes down Lord Wayne's legs.

Finally, that last barrier is gone, and the fabric falls in a heap on the floor. 

Jason looks up.

Lord Wayne stares back at him. There's a brief flicker of approval, but otherwise his expression remains stoic, as if carved from stone. It's both parts infuriating and entrancing, the way in which that clear gray-blue gaze holds Jason captive for long, charged moments. 

And, just like that, it's over; Lord Wayne steps forward, unabashed of his nakedness, and his fingers skim over Jason's nape in a light caress. Helpless, still on his knees, Jason turns his head, watches Wayne cross the short distance to the tub.

Muscles rippling with the movement, Wayne puts his foot over the low rim. Before he settles himself into the water, though, he glances at Jason over his shoulder. 

Bastard, Jason thinks. But he gathers himself up and follows, obeying the unspoken request.

He's so weak. So utterly at Wayne's mercy.

And that's nothing new for him, isn't it? Perhaps he really is like a dog, after all.

With a bitter quirk to his lips, Jason picks up the wash cloth, dips it in the tub, and rubs it with a bar of soap, until there's a sufficient layer of lather. Then, he steels himself, clutches for that pulsing thread of defiance and anger, and bends down to his task.

He starts with Wayne's back, scrubbing over its broad expanse, following down the valley of the spine, then up again, with quick, efficient motions. No need to make it pleasurable or draw it out longer than necessary, he thinks, noting how Wayne's pale skin flushes pink from his rough treatment.

There are scars, of course. A lot of them, and they capture his attention, even though he tries to suppress the impulse. Some of them are from him, most likely – the remnants from all the times that the Dark Knight and the Red Hood met and crossed blades in the past.

Jason wonders if Lord Wayne ever looks at those marks in the mirror, if he ever traces them with his fingertips.

If he … 

Jason shakes his head to banish that image, ruthlessly smothers the accompanying rush of a deep, possessive satisfaction. 

Focus, you fool.

He shifts to the front, passing the cloth over Wayne's chest. It feels like steel under his palm: the sharp, graceful lines of the collarbones rising above the firm pectorals, as smooth and sculpted as those found on the statues of the heroes of old. But it only drives Jason to press harder, dig his fingers in to force that warm flesh to yield.

A quiet, barely audible hiss escapes Wayne when Jason makes a particularly rough swipe, and the fabric catches on the reddened nipple.

Good.

Straightening up from his crouch, he walks over to the foot of the tub, and grabs hold of Wayne's ankle. He washes one leg, then the other. And, just like the rest of Wayne's body, those parts too are well-formed and proportionate, from the hard swell of the muscled calves to the arches of the insteps. 

Jason tightens his fingers around the ankle, until the bones grind in his grip, until he hears Wayne stifle another small gasp.

Damn you, he thinks, frustrated. Damn you for this.

Damn you for making me look at you. For making me touch you, when you know well what it does to me.

Damn you.

“Wash my hair,” Lord Wayne whispers.

Jason clenches his jaw, but keeps his silence. He lets go of Wayne's foot, pushes himself up, and sets aside the cloth. Then, he turns to rummage through the supplies on the table. After a brief moment of hesitation, he chooses a tall, slim vial. 

There's nothing else to do to delay the inevitable, so Jason goes back to kneel behind Wayne. Still burning with indignation, he stares at the relaxed line of Wayne's shoulders. 

It's deceptive, that repose. Even sitting like that, with his elbows casually propped on the edge of the tub, Lord Wayne exudes power. And it's all the more raw, all the more compelling, since it doesn't come from his finery, weapons, or other trappings of his station.

Jason loves and hates it in equal measure. 

He uncorks the vial to pour its contents into his palm. A rich, earthy scent fills the air, teasing Jason's nostrils. 

Wayne cants his head back without prompting, his throat a taut, tempting arch. Jason averts his gaze from that sight, concentrates on rubbing the liquid between his fingers. Once they are sufficiently slippery with foam, he brings them to Wayne's temples. 

The smell intensifies, and then only grows heavier, as Jason begins to scratch at the skin, working the lather through Wayne's hair. He keeps the pressure firm, alternating between faster and slower strokes, combing his fingers through any tangles that he finds.

And all the while Wayne is leaning into Jason's touch, pliant. His eyes are closed, the lashes dark against his cheekbones. 

Jason curses himself for noticing that detail, for unconsciously letting his guard slip yet again. 

Good thing that he's almost done.

On the floor, there's a brass pitcher. Jason picks it up, tilts it slightly over Wayne's head. Clean water starts to flow, rinsing away the suds from the strands of short, black hair. 

“You know,” Jason muses, breaking the silence for the first time. “It would be so easy to kill you like that. I could cut your throat with your own dagger.”

“You wouldn't.” Lord Wayne doesn't even open his eyes.

“I wouldn't?” Jason cannot suppress the bitterness in his voice. He withdraws his hand from Wayne's hair, puts the pitcher down. “Right. Because your words bind me.”

Wayne tenses. He turns to Jason, the slow movement causing the water to slosh against the rim of the tub. The peaceful expression is gone; his eyes are full of remorse, pleading with Jason to understand.

“It was the only way, Jason,” he says. “They would have executed you otherwise.” He pauses, draws a deep breath. “But I couldn't let you get away with no punishment either.” 

And then Lord Wayne's tone takes on a softer edge. “You think it's only magic and my words binding your will? Once you had me at your mercy, defenseless, and yet you didn't kill me.” He continues, still gentle. “Your honor is what truly binds you, Jason.”

Honor.

The worst thing is that Lord Wayne sounds as if he really believes it. 

What about the Joker, then? Jason wants to ask. He too was unarmed, and I was ready to gut him.

But the Joker wasn't you. And you know I will always stay my blade, always hesitate when it comes to you.

“Oh, so you trust me? To do the right thing?” Jason grits out. “Then you are an even bigger fool than I am.”

“Perhaps I am,” Lord Wayne agrees, just before he grabs at the edges of the tub and hauls himself up to his feet. Water cascades down his broad chest, his flanks, his long, muscular legs.

Jason stares at Wayne. His lips part, but the rest of his refusal and his jeers remain frozen on his tongue.

Those blue-gray eyes pin him down, the challenge in them unmistakable. “I do trust you, Jason.”

Face flaming, his throat tight, Jason picks up the soap and another wash cloth. 

Is this what you want from me? A proof of my loyalty?

It's pure torture, dragging the wet fabric over Lord Wayne's thick thighs, over the ridges of his hipbones, over the high curve of his taut buttocks. Learning them all, mapping their hard planes in such an intimate way. 

This time, Jason can't stop his hands from shaking.

He's about to swipe the cloth down, to follow the trail of the dark hair below Lord Wayne's navel, when strong fingers close around his wrist, arresting the movement. 

“Thank you,” Lord Wayne says. Still, he doesn't immediately loosen his grip, keeping Jason's palm trapped flat against his abdomen. Heated and solid, the muscles ripple in an involuntary reaction. 

Jason almost jerks away as soon as Lord Wayne allows it, but manages to wrestle for control at the last moment. He turns his back to Wayne, listens to the water splashing. His hands knot into white-knuckled fists at his sides.

Only when the sounds of washing stop does he dare to look again at Wayne.

The rest of the bathing ritual passes in a blur; Jason dries Lord Wayne's body, helps him don a soft robe. Through it all, he's filled with nothing but a gnawing yearning and a hopeless desperation. 

I am yours. Is this what you wanted?

Lord Wayne catches his chin and gazes into his eyes.

“You did well,” he says, eventually.

His lips brush over Jason's cheek, soft like a butterfly's wing.


End file.
